Til The Day I Die (An Autobiography by Steve Rogers)
by HogwartsAsWeKnowIt
Summary: My name is Steve Rogers, but I guess I'm better known as Captain America these days. You may think being a superhero is fun, easy even. Let's take a walk in my shoes. I guarantee you'll change your mind. (A journal by Steve from his POV)


**'Til the Day I Die**  
**(An Autobiography by Steve Rogers)**

**Summary:** My name is Steve Rogers, but I guess I'm better known as Captain America these days. You may think being a superhero is fun, easy even. Let's take a walk in my shoes. I guarantee you'll change your mind.

**Author's Note:** I made most of this information up. Some of it may be inaccurate and I'm sorry if it is. I just went off of what I could find and added on to it with my own ideas. Rated T for violence, drinking and because I'm writing it.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Marvel. Yes, it's managed to ruin my life, I don't own it. And if I did own it, I would be a crazy billionaire like Tony Stark yet I'm a pathetic fangirl who seriously needs to get a life. Have I made myself clear yet?

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**My Pathetic Excuse of a Childhood**

My name is Captain Steven Grant Rogers of the United States Army.

Quite a title, I know. To make things simpler, I'll just call myself Steve Rogers.

Now that's a name you might recognize, because _Steve Rogers + super-soldier serum = Captain America. _And that's our math lesson for the day.

Most people would think my life is just some glorious showbiz, hotshot movie that everyone and everything is perfect. If you think that, NEWSFLASH: you're wrong. I hope that what I write in these pages would change your mind. Completely. 100%.

Why? Let's start with my childhood.

* * *

I was born July 4, 1922 to Sarah and Joseph Rogers. If Mary Rogers hadn't been a miscarraige, I would of had an older sister. That's what my father wanted, a girl. So when I came along, those plans changed and it was obvious his wishes had been declined by whoever had the power to do so. Also, I had been an earlyborn: weak, small, skin and bones. I had needed medical attention, but my father denied it due to our poor income. How I lived past the age of three is still a wonderous miracle.

Speaking of my father, I'll give a few words on him so you'll know what a pethatic loser he was. Raised in Indiana, Joseph Rogers moved to New York when he was twelve. He married my mother when they were both eighteen and fresh out of highschool. The depression hit, and they lost their house, possessions and money. By 1920 they had managed to get back on thier feet. Even so, we had next to nothing. After Mary, they were both shaken up, my father way worse than my mom. What little money we scraped together during the month, the majority of it was spent on his drinking habits. Neither me or my mom could make a difference in his wild ways. Every night he'd stumble in the door full of whiskey with fire in his eyes and a cold heart. He'd upturn tables, throw objects around, break things, and abused us. By the age of five I was used to receiving a blow from my father. Often I went to bed worn and bloody, my mom and I sleeping together, desperately clutching on to the only things we had left in the world: eachother. Almost every morning Joseph would be passed out on the couch or barking orders at my mother. When I was fourteen, he left, due to the fact my mom had become violently ill. It just happened one day; he left for the bar and never came back. To say I missed him would be a downright lie. He hadn't been a father to me, and thanks to him I have never experienced a proper father-son relationship; he never played baseball with me or throwed the football on Sunday, there were no "I love you"s or "Good job son"s, and he never gave me comfort, no hugs, no smiles, no kind words. There was only one lesson he taught me. Yes, it has served me well over the years, but it's not something I would thank him for. Joseph Rogers taught me never to have a hard drink.

My mother was born and rasied by a loving couple in Brooklyn, New York. Sarah grew up with a admirable education, yet never had much of a chance to use it. When she was in high school and dating her future lunatic husband, her parents had both tragically died in a car accident. She had no family to take care of her, so she moved in with Joseph. They got engaged at age 16, but his parents made them finish high school and wait two years before running off and getting hitched. Together, they managed a small apartment in the Lower East side of Manhattan. Several months after the move, my mother realized she was pregnant. Unfortunately, when the time came the shattering news was delivered: Mary Rose Rogers had died in her mother's womb. Joseph didn't want to try again, since his heart had been so set on his little girl, only for her to be torn away before she had the chance to take her first breath. On the other hand, my mom kept hope, and during a hot July day in 1922, I happened. Yes, my father was proud, but he had wanted Mary and I just wasn't a good enough replacement. When I was seven, the Great Depression hit. We lost everything. My dad got laid off, and we almost lost our feeble home. Thanks to my penny saving mother, we managed to survive. As a child, I was taught to save everything and waste nothing. However, my dad didn't follow those virtues. The drinking had begun when I was bout three, but by the time I was ten it had become a serious issue. People in the neighborhood feared him, and my poor mother struggled to makes friends or acquaintances. She was there for me though, she always was. Sarah was an inspiration to me, and I thrived to grow up to be just like her: strong, passionate, caring, loving, and most important, hopeful. It was my first week of 9th grade that our family had received the news. My mother had been diagnosed with

pneumonia, a deadly disease. I had known she had been sick, but I thought it was just a common cold and she would be healed. Yet here we were, my father and I, basically told that she was going to die. That was around the time my father left. To support my family, I was forced to drop out of school at the age of fourteen. I worked three jobs, which took quite a toll on my frail body. But I kept pushing myself, since the least I could do was provide my dying hero some food on the table and a roof over my head. My mother died with her hand in mine, three years later. It was on her deathbead that she told me the most meaningful words I had heard in my life. She said, "Don't cry, Steve. Celebrate life, and the savor love wherever you can find it."

The memories of my parents are few, yet that's almost fine by me. They're both too painful to remember. I spent most of my childhood away from the house, running, drawing, and working. As I grew up I had an inspiring interest in art, and I was good at it too for my age and everything. However, with the working and the running, I didn't have much of an oppurtunity to practice my talents. Let me explain the "running" and the "working".

To explain the running, it's quite simple. I was bullied as a kid. In fifth grade, I weighed a freaking 50 pounds. Not natural for a kid my age, at all. I got beat up with words and fists. With all my health issues I learned to be strong, and somehow I managed through it. But I tried not to run away from a fight. Just my problems. I actually did try to run away once. It failed.

And then the working. Since my father failed to support our family, I got a job at the age of twelve as the newspaper boy. I stayed loyal to this job until I was fifteen. Also, I worked in the kitchen of the diner just down the street. It paid fairly well, and I enjoyed it. However, even that wouldn't last.


End file.
